The Lost Holmes
by 9booksinaroom
Summary: The Holmes brothers haven't seen their brother, Merlin, in years. He was gone, off their hands, and not their responsibility or so they thought. (Or the one were John is completely done with Holmes family). Rated T.
1. The Peculiar Boy

**So I am convinced that there is not enough Merlin Holmes fics in this world, so I wrote one. I hope you like it. Just so you know ages, Sherlock is 30 and Merlin is 21. I don't know how old Sherlock or Merlin actually are in the shows, but this is just what i'm going with. So have fun. Oh wait, in case you didn't figure it out, I don't own any of these shows.**

John was just sitting down for his afternoon tea when he heard a knock on the door. Visitors were common at 221B, and though John enjoyed the people and the investigation that were sure to follow, he did appreciate a little time to himself. It really wasn't that much to ask. With a sigh John put down his tea cup and hefted himself out of the comfortable chair, grabbing his cane before walking down the stairs.

The young man standing in front of the door at the bottom of John's stairs seemed quite familiar. Perhaps it was the dark brown almost black curled hair that looked ruffled and untameable or maybe the pale grey eyes, but the most prominent features were the high cheek bones, which looked like they could cut glass, that reminded him, strangely, of Sherlock. He had the look of what a typical client would look like except for the fact that he lacked the typical worry troubling look in most people's eyes. He dressed a little peculiar for his age as well. A long brown trench coat over a grey sweater and a red scarf wrapped around his neck gave the impression of an old man rather than a young university student.

John realized that he had been standing there for quite a while.

"Why don't you come in?" John asked, failing to compensate for the awkwardness of leaving the boy standing there for so long. "Are you looking for Sherlock?" He said, glancing back over his shoulder to look at the boy now following him up the stairs.

"Yes, unfortunately," The boy said with a slight smirk rolling on his lips. That seemed strange to John. Why would he come here if he didn't want to talk to Sherlock. The boy did have a certain strangeness to him, so John just ignored it.

They had reached the living room, which of course was a mess. John had been trying to convince Sherlock to clean it, thinking it was unprofessional, but John didn't want to face the consequences of touching Sherlocks stuff nor would Sherlock actually clean it himself. John wasn't surprised to see Sherlock laying on the couch, long limbs curled up so they could fit. Now starring at Sherlock, he noticed that the boy and Sherlock also shared the same tall, lanky build as well.

Sherlock must have heard them on the stairs and simply had chosen not to get up.

"So, whats your problem? This better be good. I don't particularly have time right now ," Sherlock said from his position on the couch, looking the exact opposite of busy.

The boy stared at Sherlock as if he had seen a ghost. Any form of happiness or welcome

had completely vanished from his face. John sat down, sighing. Sherlock had a habit of making a lot of enemies, and John often found himself in the middle of these enemies and Sherlock, often in the middle of his living room as well. What Sherlock had done to anger this man, well barely a man considering he looked about 20, John wasn't sure.

"Well, you see the problem, unfortunately, is you," The boy said in a surprisingly calm voice compared to his angered expression. This would have been a good sign to anyone else, but John had learned from dealing with Sherlock that the calmer the voice, the faster you run.

Sherlock looked at the boy, having moved his body to a sitting position. Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes, causing him to hesitate before saying, " I don't recall ever meeting you, so I'm afraid you must have misplaced your blame."

The boys angered expression turned to one of loss. "No you wouldn't." His voice was soft, as if remembering something. "That's not Important. However, what is important is that you're going to get a call in about... um... oh 3 hours and 20 minutes," He said looking down at his watch. "and I need you not to answer it." The boy had a slight, aggravating smirk on his face.

John was growing slightly irritated. This boy shows up, disturbs his afternoon tea, demands that they don't answer a simple call, and he hasn't even given them his name.

"Now, hold on a second. We don't even know your name," John said, knowing his frustration showed through in his voice. The nameless boy turned on his heals in his peculiar black shoes and moved out of the doorway of their living room.

"That's not important," He called out. His footsteps retreated down the stairs. Sherlock quite quickly got up from his seat, nearly running down the steps behind the boy. Two pairs of footsteps stopped on the stairs. There was a short silence before one pair of steps started running, unevenly, down the rest of the stairs, and the sound of the door swinging shut followed. John wasn't sure what happened, but he was positive of one thing; It was Sherlock's fault. It was always Sherlock's fault.

**Did you like it? Hate it? I know its a little short, but the next chapter will be longer. Please review and I'm always open to criticism. I know it's not good, so please help me make it better. So bye, It's been real. **


	2. Strange Coffee

"Sherlock, don't lie," John said, almost the instant Sherlock returned from the stairwell. "I know you know who that man is."

John realized now that he probably shouldn't have brought it up. Sherlock's face held emotions that he had never seen or even thought to associate Sherlock with. He looked exhausted, but more than that, Sherlock looked regretful. Regret was not something that Sherlock ever did, even after all the years that John had known him.

Sherlock's response came, not in the argumentative tone John knew but in a tired voice. "I do not."

John was half way between wanting to strangle Sherlock for lying and comforting him, none of which would have good an effect, so John opted for the option of leaving the room. He left the now silent living room, leaving Sherlock in the same position he had found him, lying on the couch staring at the ceiling.

John returned to his room, trying to decide if he could just finish his tea now that he had time to himself, but he decided that would be inconsiderate to his friend laying shocked downstairs, not that Sherlock ever cared about anything like proper courtesy to friends. Still, John decided just to sit there, which turned out not to be the best idea either. He kept thinking of that boy, but that brought back the image of Sherlock's reaction and that was something that John didn't want to face.

John was just picking up a book when his door swung open. Sherlock appeared in front of John, as pretentious as ever.

"John, There's been another murder. We're leaving, now. God knows that Lestrade already managed to mess up the crime scene," Sherlock said in his rapid tone of voice that almost seemed forced.

Sherlock didn't wait for John to follow him, which he supposed would make any normal person mad, but John had lost the notion that he was a normal person years ago. So John came hurrying down the stairs behind him, coat and cane in one hand.

The bright lights of the crime scene came into view. He fell behind Sherlock as he walked, the routine familiar to him, not necessarily boring just familiar. The crime scene was centered around a coffee shop that would have been quaint if it wasn't surrounded by police cars and had all it's window's smashed in. He supposed it would have been something he would've enjoyed going to himself.

As he struggled to keep up with Sherlock due to his insistence at walking way quicker than the average human being and to their unfair height difference, Lestrade moved easily to walk beside them.

"It's clear to go in, but I'm warning you. It's a little gruesome," Lestrade said, leading them through the glass door to the coffee shop.

The coffee shop turned out to be considerably bigger on the inside then it appeared on the outside. It was furnished with light wooden chairs and tables and doused in warm brown colours. Behind the polished wooden counters was a scene that contrasted so drastically with the rest of the room around it that it would have made any normal man cringe in disgust, but as John had come to acknowledge many times, he was not a normal man.

Staring at the bodies, John understood why Lestrade had called them. The first body was surrounded by scorch marks, and the body itself, well what was left of it, was almost completely burned down to the bones. The two other bodies were a little less gruesome, but their bodies were mangled as if the bones were broken. The way they were positioned made it look as if they were thrown into the wall, but even a full grown man wouldn't have been able to throw them hard enough to produce that much damage.

After looking over the bodies himself, Sherlock turned to John from his crouched position next to the second body.

"What do you think, John," Sherlock said, following the pattern of their typical investigation. John knelt down beside Sherlock, leaning over the body. He carefully touched up and down the legs and neck, feeling for any breaks or fractures.

"The right arm is completely shattered, as well as the collarbone," John said, turning to lock at Sherlock. He turned back to the task at hand and slowly flipped the body over. "The back is broken in several places, and it looks like a breakage across the spine is what killed him." The man had the typical signs that you would see if he was exposed to high force such as a car crash or in this case being thrown against a wall, but the damage shouldn't have been this severe. He stood up, standing next to Sherlock, who had his face drawn in concentration and a hand under his chin.

"Sherlock, there is no way this man was thrown. His bones would have had to have been broken before," John said to Sherlock. He had meant it to come out firmer, but the statement ended up sounding like a question.

"Right but wrong, John. You never see anything, do you?" Sherlock looked at John, his 'I am surrounded by idiots' face very evident on his face.

"How do you survive?" he muttered. "Nothing was done to the body before.

"There is no bruising of weapons or hands that would've been required to fracture bones that badly. Infact, there is no evidence that anyone touched this man at all," Sherlock said his pace rapidly increasing.

"Which of course means that he couldn't have been thrown either. Unless our killer took specific time to hide and avoid leaving marks, which didn't happen because they were obviously in a hurry," Sherlock walked over to the counter followed by John and then Lestrade.

"The killer wasn't here to kill these people. They were here to do something else."

"But we already checked. Nothing was taken. It wasn't a robbery," Lestrade interrupted Sherlock. Sherlock in return glared at him.

"Yes, I know, but look at the sink. There is still water in it. If that was left in there at 10 o'clock when the last employee went home, it would have dried by now." John looked at the sink Sherlock was gesturing at, and wasn't surprised to see that water droplets were still spewed across the metallic surface.

"And look at the cupboard. A few of the lids to these herbs aren't screwed on. They're placed, like the person didn't have time to fit them back on properly. The killer must have been doing something with the ingredients in the coffee shop, but what could a simple coffee shop offer someone that they would kill for it?" Sherlock looked up. Though his face showed no signs, John knew that Sherlock had just come to a revelation.

"John, check the mens' jacket," Sherlock said. He was facing away from John, deep in thought and didn't bother to explain anything despite the fact that John knew he was dying for the chance to show off.

John walked over to the bodies, searching through pockets and patting down the surface to look for what Sherlock was referring to. He gave up and was prepared to just let Sherlock rub it in his face when he noticed what he had missed about the jackets; the logo on the pocket was the same on both jackets. The symbol was a simple red and gold lion, but it looked professional, meaning it was probably from an organization or company.

"Okay fine, go ahead, Sherlock. How did you know that?" John said sounding disinterested as always, but really, like always, very curious.

"It's simple really, John. _Think_ about it. Why would there be three men in a coffee shop after it was closed?" A question that John didn't bother attempting to answer.

"Maybe, they were working with the killer? No, if the killer was trying to get rid of their colleagues, they wouldn't have left evidence, so they men had to have followed them in. But why did they follow our killer in?" At this point Sherlock was pacing around the room, not exactly talking to himself but not talking to John either.

"The answer to that is also the answer to why our killer was here in the first place," Sherlock paused for a second, which John thought was just a tad dramatic.

"Its because this place isn't a real coffee shop, and those men are here to make sure no one figures that out. Come on, these spices aren't something you find in a coffee shop," Sherlock said, sniffing some of the spices he had grabbed in his hand.

"It's a front for something -"

Sherlock's rant was stopped by the door shutting rather forcefully.

"I thought I told you to stay away from this," A familiar and slightly aggravated voice came from the doorway. Both Sherlock and John looked up only to be met with the same boy that he hoped never to see again.

**So how was it? I know there was no Merlin in it, but don't worry. There will be lots of Merlin in the next chapter. So I'm thinking of updating on Mondays, but it may change to Tuesdays. I'll try to post on schedule cause I know how annoying it is when people don't. So yep. Please review, tell me if you like or hate it, and feel free to ask questions. Bye **


	3. Slightly Smaller Government Positions

The boy, who they still didn't have a name for, walked in through the door, flashing what looked like a badge at the police man, who looked a little dazed, standing there. The boy's whole attitude seemed to have changed from earlier. He looked more confident and barely seemed to give Sherlock a second glance. Sherlock returned the favor, and the Sherlock that was breaking down in the living room earlier had all but vanished.

"I thought we had an agreement," the nameless boy said. His gaze wasn't on Sherlock, but John had a feeling that the statement was directed more to Sherlock then him. Sherlock's face showed no emotion. It was as if this afternoon never happened.

"And what right do you have to be here," Sherlock said. John thought he might have caught a small pop of Sherlock's jaw, but he wasn't sure.

The boy stared at Sherlock, a slight smile slipped on his face like he was sharing some joke with himself. "I could ask you the same thing, and i'm sorry but that information is above your clearance," He paused for a second, as if gauging their reactions. It seemed that his knack for the dramatic was yet another thing he shared with Sherlock. His next sentence was said as if he could barely contain a laugh. "I have a small position in the British government."

John, however, didn't find it very funny. He was done with dealing Mycroft and did not feel like dealing with one of his lackeys. Sherlock seemed less aggravated, in fact it appeared as if the last sentence didn't even register in his brain, a feat John knew to be unlikely.

"Oh, I'm Merlin Emrys by the way, but technically you could call me Dr. Emrys. Well I guess, theoretically, you could call me a captain too. Oh I like the sound of that," Merlin Emrys said drifting off into a ramble.

He had seemed mature for a second, but now John was beginning to wonder how this young boy ended up knowing Mycroft. Sherlock had a look of irritation on his face, his hand rubbing his forehead.

"So, Merlin-" Sherlock cringed away as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth. "Excuse me, Mr. Emrys" He corrected himself. "What is it that makes someone in your 'position' so interested?"

Merlin hesitated, contemplating his options before turning toward John, still attempting to ignore Sherlock.

"I'm afraid that's above your clearance as well-"

"No, I'm afraid it's not," Sherlock said, interrupting whatever Merlin was going to say. "You're not really in the government."

John should have known something like this was going to happen. Sherlock had a habit of telling people their whole life story, something that was really unnecessary seeing as they have already lived their life story, in a very rude manner. He also enjoyed blurting out accusations, which much to John's dismay were mostly correct. This, however, seemed slightly different than all the times before it. In fact, it seemed almost personal, but that was impossible because Sherlock wasn't personal, not with anyone.

"You were shot in two places on your right side, one quite recently. So maybe you worked in the police special forces, but to have the position you're claiming to have would be nearly impossible for someone your age." Sherlock began his infamous and detailed explanation of what John was assuming was going to be the kid's entire life.

"But what also makes it impossible is that one of your bullet wounds is in your right calf, judging from your slight limp, but for a wound in that area to fully heal with such a small limp, it would've had to have occurred over 5 years ago, making you around 15 or 16." Sherlock was staring right at Merlin, now, but instead of his usual pretentious expression, Sherlock was looking at Merlin with a slight look of horror.

Sherlock began walking toward Merlin. John wasn't particular sure if he should be worried about Sherlock or Merlin, but neither of them did anything. Sherlock simply reached out and took the badge that was still in Merlin's hand. He took only a quick glance at it, but John knew that was more than enough time to spot anything he was looking for.

"This is fake as well. It's very good, but the finish is too glossy." John was taken slightly aback at the view of Sherlock complementing anyone on anything, but then again, if Sherlock was going to praise someone, it would've been about something like forged police badges.

"Now, _Mr_. Emrys, tell me again why you're here?" Sherlock said, seemingly covering his voice in sarcasm. Sherlock knew he had won, and John was starting to feel slightly sorry for the poor boy as a result, even if he had lied to them.

Merlin laughed lightly. It was a surprisingly light laugh, like one you shared with your best friend about some inside joke, not one to be used in this situation.

"That, I'm afraid, Merlin said, a smile showing through his voice, "is still above your clearance."

Merlin did something with his hands though John wasn't quite sure what, and the world around him began to fade. His vision darkened around the edges like looking through a broken lens, and the last thing he saw before completely blacking out was the silhouette of a women standing in the doorway that Merlin had entered through earlier.

John blinked rapidly, trying to block out the bright light blinding him. He was laying on something comfy and worn down, and the strong smell of cigarette smoke curled around him. He opened his eyes cautiously, something he had learned to do because, unfortunately, John wasn't a stranger to being in one place and waking up in a completely different one.

The room turned out to be a very familiar one. Apparently, the Merlin boy was nice enough to drop them off in their own apartment after knocking them out, a gesture that John wasn't quite sure if he should appreciate or not.

"Oh, good, you're awake," a voice broke through John's still half asleep state.

John rubbed his eyes, more relaxed now that he knew it was just Sherlock, who currently seemed to be relapsing on his cigarette use. Sherlock was sitting in the chair across from him, cigarette dangling from one hand and his head in the other. The position that usually would've told John that Sherlock was lost deep in his mind instead seemed to radiate stress, and John could tell that the cigarette had not been his first. The ashtray next to Sherlock on the table was dotted with cigarette butts.

"Sherlock! I thought we agreed. No more," John said, but Sherlock didn't even register that he had spoken.

"I looked at some of the herbs that were at the coffee shop," John didn't even bother to yell at Sherlock for taking evidence. "And they are all extremely rare, some even illegal to have."

John wasn't one to pass up an investigation, but Sherlock didn't seemed to be focused, as if he was just doing this as a distraction. His voice seemed empty as he spoke, not filled with the usual curiosity and excitement that normally fueled it, but John didn't know how to deal with a Sherlock like this because Sherlock was never like this.

He was starting to think that maybe they should've listened to Merlin in the first place. It wasn't that they couldn't handle the danger it brought, having dealt with worse, but John didn't think that Sherlock's mind would survive pushing farther into this case. It was breaking Sherlock, something that was impossible, and that scared John.

"Sherlock, maybe we shouldn't have taken this case."

"What? Scared of Emrys are you?" Sherlock said, but his voice still lacked emotion.

"No, listen, Sherlo-" Sherlock's phone interrupted their conversation. The tension that had been in the room seemed to fall away. John sighed, irritated.

"Mycroft," The name was obviously addressed to whomever had called Sherlock, and as quick as it had left, the blanket of tension and stress fell back over the room.

What is this!? I actually updated on time. So here you go, take some Merlin being a dork. Thanks for all the awesome reviews you guys left. They make my day, so feel free to keep doing that. Go ahead and comment on any improvements you think I can make too. So see you all again on next Monday.


	4. Non-Lethal Lethal Chemicals

"Hello, dear brother," the voice on the other end of the phone line called out. Sherlock let out a minuscule sigh compared to John's loud one. John really didn't not need Sherlock's snarky brother added to his list of rather annoying things right now.

"So nice of you to call," Sherlock said, playing along with game that seemed to occur every time Sherlock and Mycroft spoke to each other, even through a phone call. They danced around each other with pretty words and strategically avoiding anything that actually needed to be said.

"Yes, it is. Say, Sherlock, how is the case you're working on going?" Sherlock's jaw popped out, clearly thinking of yesterday's encounter with Merlin. "Well I suppose it doesn't really matter because you're to stop looking into it anyway," Mycroft continued with tiringly familiar words.

"You already sent a boy with a fake badge to tell me that. I expected better, Mycroft?" Sherlock said, acting so indifferent to the boy that had caused so much emotion in him earlier.

The other line was quiet for a moment before a hesitant Mycroft answered, "Yes, I did, very good, Sherlock." The end of the sentence coming out stronger and surer.

It was as if that was the answer that he had been waiting for. With no indication, Sherlock hung up the phone.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, slowly, his mind processing something. As soon as he hit the chair, he was up on his feet again. John was guilty to admit that he jumped a little in shock. Sherlock's face lit up with the fascination that always came when Sherlock figured out something new. In that way he reminded John of a child.

"John! Of course. Tell me this John; when does Mycroft call?" Sherlock said. John could tell a rant was coming no matter what his answer was.

"Um… When he wants something from us," John guessed, unsure where Sherlock was going with this particular line of thought.

"Exactly! When he doesn't want me to know something," Sherlock said and as John predicted, completely disregarding John's answer.

"We're not dealing with some petty crime. In Fact, we're dealing with a drug cartel to be specific." John sat back, continuing to let Sherlock to ramble on. He knew from experience that it was better to let Sherlock's rant run their course than to interfere and deal with the many insults that were sure to be made about John.

"Come on, John. The Lions, its the symbol for Pendragon, the most influential drug cartel in England," John just stared at Sherlock with a blank gaze. He had never heard of a 'Pendragon', but then again, he hasn't heard of most of the things Sherlock talks about.

"Of course you haven't heard of it. Mycroft keeps it very quiet, so naturally i'm very familiar with the information," Sherlock said passively giving John the answer to the question he didn't even ask.

John was all too aware of the relationship between Sherlock and his brother. In fact, it seemed like the only thing John knew that the Holmes didn't. They were constantly at war with each other, a war fueled by the mutual longing to out do the other. It was a game played in secret that both brothers thought they were winning, but were completely unaware of the fact that they were both losing. Like a cat and mouse chase, in which no one realized that they were neither animal.

John huffed out an annoyed sigh at the thought of the Holmes brothers, and listened to Sherlock's explanations.

"So the coffee shop is a cover for the Pendragons, which we already knew, but why would someone break in if not to take something?"

"Um, information. Maybe a competitor," John guessed despite knowing that he was most likely wrong. Sherlock gave him a disparaging stare, which meant that his first guess was wrong, but his second, however, was right.

"Did you know there has been a rise in death due to cycloalkane in the past two days, 5 in fact," Sherlock said, changing subjects abruptly. "It's a street drug, not normally deadly," He supplied before John could ask what Cycloalkane was.

"Oh, John, I don't assume you would know to where to buy potentially dangerous street drugs would you?" John wasn't quite sure if that was a rhetorical question or not, but he was going to take in as so any way.

With no other words, John found himself following Sherlock down the stairs and out the door with his cane in one hand and his revolver in another.

John was crouched in a quite uncomfortable position behind a few rotten, broken wooden crates. His revolver was pulled out and loaded, and his eyes scanned the room.

It was a large, mostly empty warehouse which presumably hadn't been used in sometime. The small windows lining the top of the building were smashed in and sprinkled the cracked cement floor with sharp shards of glass. The half working lighting sent a strange green glow to illuminate the room, making the prospect of what they were doing slightly more intimidating.

From his position, John could only see a couple men, all dressed in black, but from the footsteps echoing around the abandoned room, he could tell there were more. Sherlock's voice broke through the silence that John had been trying to maintain.

"John, If you don't break in to take something, why would you break-in?" Sherlock whispered but hiding wasn't really his forte, so it ended up just being his normal volume of voice.

"To put something in," Sherlock said answering his own question. "People don't just die from a non-lethal drug." Sherlock turned to get up with no other words of what he was planning to do, but John had a slight idea from years of experience.

Sherlock was a man of confrontation and dramatic scenes. Sure he loved being in the background pulling the strings, but he craved to be acknowledged. This was possibly the reason, among many other things, that made people loath Sherlock. Sure, they liked him when he was solving murders for them, but any other time he was chucked aside. He was just a conceited man, which John supposed was often true.

Sherlock was most likely going to waltz into the middle of the room, probably backed with some brilliant plan that he had neglected to tell John about, and literally talk god knows who to death.

The quiet shuffle of feet and grunts from people lifting something abruptly came to a stop, and the room filled with the deadly sound of heels.

"Feel free to join us, Dr, Watson," A women's voice spoke from the somewhere in the room. It sounded almost like singing, but the voice was meant to be singing a cruel song.

John hesitantly got to his feet, but you couldn't really blame him. The women probably had other ways, much more painful ways, to get him to come. As he walked out into the room, he could see the full picture of what was going on. Around ten men stood in the back around a couple of packages that looked like they could be carrying flour, but John, however, doubted that any of these men were refined cooks nor was that flour.

The woman that John assumed had done the talking was standing in the middle. She seemed to have a dangerous grace to her, dressed in a black pantsuit and with heals sharp enough to kill a man.

"I'm so glad you could make it. You too, Sherlock," She said calling over her shoulder. Emerging from behind her was Sherlock, but he didn't seem in any position to get them out of the situation they were in due to the gun pointed at his head. Sherlock always had a plan, though.

"Sorry for such a rough introduction, but I'm Morgana. I've been trying to get ahold of your brother, but unfortunately, he's a little reluctant to pick up the phone," She said with a hollow humor reflected in her eyes.

John at this point was very likely to strangle Mycroft at the next time he saw him because if it wasn't for him, they probably wouldn't be in this mess.

"What does Mycroft have to do with this," John blurted out without much thought beforehand. He realized right after he said it that it probably wasn't the best course of action to take. Most of the time, when crazy psychopathic killers confronted John, they had a tendency to not to be idiots even though John would like it very much if they were.

The women gave a short, surprisingly not that evil sounding laugh. "Oh John, Sherlock hasn't told you yet?" She said coldly. John hadn't noticed any signs of fear on Sherlock, but he thought that he might have seen Sherlock's jaw tighten slightly at that.

"Nether less, I just wanted to let you know that your guess was wrong, Sherlock," she said, and as if on cue, one of the men behind her took out a knife and slit open one of the bags. The contents fell out with a puff of white powder, and John was left staring at a pile of flour. He really should stop expecting things to actually make sense.

"That's all. You can go now," Morgana said absent mindedly waving her hand to dismiss them. And that was how John found the world fading into blackness, again, with the thought of strangling Sherlock as the last thing on his mind (also again).

I have an excuse. I promise. I was out of town, and the hotel I was staying at didn't have wifi. Im really sorry. Also thanks for all the lovely reveiws and feel free to keep writing them. By the way, I'm a good kid, so don't blame me for not knowing anything about drugs.


	5. Another One

A painful bright light shone through John's eyelids, waking him up, and he was displeased to find that he was waking up in a completely different place than the one he blacked out in, an event that he was tiring of.

His eyelids fluttered open, and he struggled to keep them open due to the light leaking into the room. Through his squinted eyes, he could tell that the room he was in wasn't that bad of a place to wake up, which probably wasn't a good sign. It was a classy room, probably owned by someone with a lot of money, which was another bad sign. It was decorated with elegant white furniture lined with gold, and the warm light coming from the large open window reflected off of a glass chandelier.

He sat up hesitantly on the stiff couch he had been lying on. On a small glass table next to him, was a tray of temptingly delicious looking food, which he cautiously ignored. He searched the room, but there was no sign of Sherlock or anyone infact. The panic of the situation started to set in, and he frantically patted his waist for the revolver he had hidden there. His hands came up empty.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm down and slow his breathing. He needed to think clearly. Looking around the room, he couldn't spot any possible escape routes. Well, he could smash the large window, but it lead out into a courtyard, which John had no doubt was guarded.

He took a deep breathe, not noticing that his breath had begun to shorten again, and was slightly startled by the sound of heels clicking against the expensive marble floors.

"Calm down, Dr. Watson. I'm not here to hurt you," Morgana said gently, her voice a strake difference from last night.

He felt a warm hand rest on his arm, and he looked up to see Morgana sitting down across from him. Looking up close, he could now see that she was quite young, perhaps in her late twenties. She was in the same sharp black suit as last night, but the whole entire atmosphere around her seemed to have changed. She seemed calm and friendly like a friend or sister, not a women who had knocked him out and kidnapped him.

"Listen, John, I'm sorry it came to what it did last night," She said gently. "I'm just concerned about Sherlock. He is a rather hard man to find." John doubted that, seeing that Sherlock and he got a rather frequent amount of visitors to their home, but for some reason he felt inclined to believe her. He felt himself subconsciously nodding but quickly stopped himself.

"I'm Just going to ask you a few questions, and then you're free to go." This was another thing that John doubted, but he found himself reluctant to bring it up.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," She said keeping her voice at a steady, calming pace. "Have you seen anything off about Sherlock in the last couple of days." Morgana took a shaky breath. "I-I'm just worried about him." For some reason John felt compelled to believe her, and he also had the urge to comfort her. She just seemed so distraught.

"Well, he has been acting a bit unusual lately," John said slowly, not wanting to make her more worried. She nodded, and blinked a couple times as if she was barely holding back tears.

"Did something happen? Maybe his family?" She said, reaching to rest a hand on his knee. "It's okay I just want to help Sherlock." She smiled solemnly and looked down, and John couldn't remember how he could ever have been afraid of this women when she seemed so kind hearted.

"He's never been very close with his brother, so I doubt it." He said, trying his best to comfort her.

"And what of Merlin, John? May I call you John?" He smiled, nodding. She smiled back at him, her wavy black hair falling in front of her face.

"Well, there was this young man named Merlin. Now that I think of it, Sherlock has been acting strangely ever since he saw him," John was a tad confused about her question and why she would know about the boy, but he could bring himself to care.

"Has he said anything else about his brother, Merlin, to you, John"

"No, he ne-" John stopped in the middle of his sentence, his mind clearing up suddenly. The warm clouded feeling that had been coloring his thoughts lifted away.

Sherlock couldn't have another brother, and most definitely not Merlin. Except it did make some sense. Sherlock keeped a lot of secrets, and he had started acting differently after Merlin showed up. Plus there was also the uncanny similarities between Sherlock and the boy.

"What are you playing at, Morgana," John said through clenched teeth.

"Ah yes, I didn't think Sherlock said anything. Thats quite alright, and thank you Dr. Watson," Morgana said. Her voice had switched back to cold and authoritative, leaving behind the kind and gentle girl John had thought he'd been talking to.

Morgana walked behind John. "I do think we're done here," She said, and quicker than he'd ever seen someone move, She grabbed his neck and drove her knees into the back of his knee caps, making him fall to the ground in pain. He felt a scratchy cloth cover his eyes, and two muscular arms grab him harshly.

He couldn't see anything through the black cloth, but he knew they must have walked for quite awhile. It seemed like forever, which was probably more like two minutes, before the blindfold was ripped rather forcefully from his face. He squinted on reflex, expecting to have blinding light in his eyes again, but the area he was in was almost completely dark.

With a rude grunt, the two men who had brought him there pushed him into the what appeared to be a cell. The walls surrounding him were completely made of rusted looking stones, and the air held a musky smell like a rotting basement. In the far corner was a rather beat up modern metal bed, which was a stark contrast to ageless cell, was sitting in the corner.

With a sigh and a strange calm, John staggered over to bed, his limp more prominent after the beating he just received. Sitting on the bed, he only managed to stay calm with his current situation by thinking about the hell he was going to give Sherlock for failing to mention there was another antagonizing Holmes.

A cough interrupted his train of thoughts, and he looked up only to notice a dark shape of a body sitting in the corner.

"Took you long enough, John," A familiar voice said. John was filled with both relief and anger, but he found himself leaning toward the latter one.

"Sherlock," He said bluntly, subconsciously letting his frustration show through his voice. "Anything you want to say to me?"

"You found out, didn't you," Sherlock said in a tired tone that John had unfortunately been hearing a lot of lately. John placed his head in his hands due to the headache starting.

"That there's another one of you? Yes. Something you apparently forgot to mention," His voice was sharp now, and he brought his head up quickly to stare at Sherlock, who sat up straighter and and stared back at John. Sherlock's face closed off.

"Look, John, I-"

What ever he was about to say was cut off by an echoing gunshot followed by another and another. There were shouts further down the hallway that were soon silenced by a few heavy crashing sounds.

John raced over to the bars of their cell, and Sherlock looked over in interest. Around the corner came a running blur of tangled black hair and long limbs, which stopped, well more like stumbled, right in front of their cell.

Hey Kids. So I'm here with another chapter, and I hope you like it. I don't really have much to put in this author's note, but as always feel free to leave criticism, questions, or anything else in reviews. Everyone you leave makes my day. :)


	6. Re-kidnapped

Merlin stared up at John sheepishly. He peered up from behind his tangled hair, looking suspiciously innocent, and in no way looking capable of somehow taking out five armed guards. He stared at the very extensive lock on John and Sherlock's cell looking frustrated, and he moved his hand to lay over the majority of it. John thought for a second that he might have seen a glint of gold in Merlin's eyes, but he dismissed that train of thought to the lighting.

A click sounded from underneath Merlin's hands, and he scrambled back as the barred door swung open.

"We have to go. I'm really sorry," Merlin whispered. Well at least he tried to whisper, but it ended up coming out as just a normal speaking voice. It seemed as if this was yet another trait Merlin seemed to share with Sherlock.

His thoughts sparked his frustration with Sherlock, which had been momentarily forgotten with the appearance of the lanky boy.

"Hang on, What is going on here? I'm not going anywhere until you tell me!" John said, his face turning a bit red.

The boy just shrugged, and offered a weak smile. "Sorry, no time," He said, still failing to whisper. Merlin flinched a little as a shout echoed from somewhere down the corridor. He turned around to go, and John looked back at Sherlock with an exasperated expression. John didn't feel very inclined to trust Merlin after what had happened last time and the newly added information.

Sherlock, however, just stood up and walked past John and out of the cell, while maintaining an uncharacteristic silence. John sighed and followed Sherlock, but as he turned the corner, the situation got a lot more dire. John found himself running to catch up with Merlin at the sight of a couple not so friendly looking men.

Merlin stepped quickly in front of John and Sherlock well making a not very successful attempt to throw them behind him. John attempted to grab Merlin, trying to get him to run because each of those men was about two times the size of merlin, and the only outcome of this situation would not be good. Merlin shrugged off his arm, and John gave a preparatory wince. Instead of Merlin dying painfully in front of them, John heard two loud heavy thuds, and John looked up to see the two men collapsed on the floor about ten feet away and a very uninjured Merlin standing with one arm extended.

That was about all John could take for one day, and from dealing with Sherlock, his capacity of dealing with things was rather high. But he was completely done with this.

"We have to go now," Merlin said between short breaths. John followed him and Sherlock, his mind still stuck on what happened about 20 seconds ago. Merlin lead them up a set of set of stairs and through a complicated labyrinth that he seemed to have no problem navigating, and John was in no position to protest, seeing as his mind was still stuck in a numb disoriented state. When they finally reached a door, it opened to reveal a busy street. The people in front of them walked by, absorbed in their own lives and had no idea of what just transpired right below them.

Once they reached the open street, Merlin's pace slowed to blend in with the others around him. It seemed as if this all wasn't very unusual for him. John's mind was still struggling to comprehend what had happened in the last 10 minutes when he saw Merlin's hand go into the inside of his coat pocket. John tensed despite knowing that Merlin didn't seem like the type to have a gun, but John knew from experience that first impressions were often wrong. Merlin, though, just pulled out a cell phone.

The person on the other end said something, and Merlin nodded. "Yeah I have them, give me two days," Merlin said. None of his words seemed like particularly good ones, and John really didn't feel like being kidnapped by the person who rescued him after being kidnapped. He was tired and just wanted to go home with his tea and finally get a chance to yell at Sherlock. Unfortunately, this whole entire day was beginning to feel a whole lot like the plot of some cheesy american action movie, and John had a feeling he wasn't going back to 221 B for awhile.

The person on the other end of merlin's call must have said something, and Merlin responded with a goofy grin. "Yeah, yeah. You're such a prat. See you soon." Merlin's actions seemed to completely contradict the first part of the one sided conversation John had heard, which threw his slowly recovering mind back into an utterly confused state.

John continued following Merlin despite the nagging feeling that he should be trying to escape, but Sherlock hadn't done or really said anything at all yet. They stopped at a corner, and an average cab pulled up. Merlin got behind Sherlock and John, silently telling them to get in. John stared at Sherlock for a second expecting him to do something, but Sherlock didn't even look at him.

The ten minute ride it took to get out to the countryside was completely silent except for a couple of shared glances between Merlin and the driver. John spent the whole time staring at Sherlock. He trusted him and what ever he was attempting to do, but something seemed off about him. It didn't seem right that he was so silent.

John's mind relapsed and he remembered the reason behind both Sherlock's silence and his want to punch Sherlock. Sherlock had a brother and that brother was Merlin. Merlin was Sherlock's brother. Sherlock had a second brother, which was Merlin. God help us all there was another Holmes.

The car came to a stop in front of an expensive looking house, if you could even call it that. It looked about three stories tall with the top layer being almost completely glass, letting light shine through. As they walked toward the house, with a little too much help from the dirty blonde driver, John could see that the front was decorated with large heavy wooden doors. The place gave him a strange feeling, not necessarily bad, but the place certainly didn't give him the warm and fuzzies.

The inside of the house was decked out with the same expensive, modern yet archaic design. A glass chandelier swung from the ceiling, reflecting sharp sparks of light on the opposite wall. John and Sherlock were pushed under it, which john prayed wouldn't fall on them, and lead to a grand stone staircase, winding down from the tall ceiling. John found himself dragged up with no regard to the fact that the staircase was rather steep and made of stone.

His painful ascent onto the third floor was followed by both Sherlock and him being thrown into a room, and the heavy wooden door shutting behind them. Now he was unsurprisingly back in the same situation he had been in only thirty minutes ago.

Sherlock settled himself down on one of the plush chairs, still opting to stay silent. Now that he was finally alone with Sherlock, John was going to follow through with his threat to knock Sherlock upside the head.

"What? Didn't feel like informing me you had a brother?" John said, his sharp sarcasm bouncing off the glass and marble room. "You were just going to wait till he kidnapped us?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth but quickly hid his expression behind an uncaring mask. "I don't see how it was important information," Sherlock said lifting his hand nonchalantly.

"Not important information?," John grumbled angrily more to himself than Sherlock.

John opened his mouth with a rushed breath preparing to launch into another sarcastic rant when he was interrupted by the heavy door opening slowly and unsteadily. A mop of black hair popped through first and Merlin's body quickly darted into the room, shutting the door behind him. The smile that had been stretching across Merlin's face dropped off as soon as he saw Sherlock. His face crumpled into a look of regret, and unlike his brother, Merlin's face showed all his emotions on full display.

Merlin opened his mouth to say something but sucked in a breath as if he changed his mind. He started hesitantly again, "Why didn't you look for me." He stared at Sherlock who seemed incapable of ignoring him like he did to John.

Sherlock, for the first time in what John assumed was forever, hesitated. "I thought you were dead," Sherlock said, his voice shaking with more emotion than Sherlock had ever had in his life.

"Hardly matters. You're here now aren't you?" Sherlock said, coldly snapping a tight seal over his emotions, not letting them pass through again.

Wait! Don't shoot. I'm really sorry about being super late to update. I got really held up with school work, and that's my lame excuse. Anyways, thank you guys for sticking around, and I hope you like this chapter. Feel free to leave me any questions or rants or whatever you want in the reviews. You can even tell me about your pet cat or something. See you again on Monday.


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